How Ever Did You Survive
by Starkreactor
Summary: ..before I came along Sherlock? The story of what happened to Sherlock before John, specifically what happened to make Sherlock so fiercely protective of Mrs. Hudson. Spoilers may come for season 2 of Sherlock. Rated for Sherlock whump.
1. The Meeting

After the new episode, I think it was obvious to all that there is quite a bit more behind Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's relationship than we previously thought. This is me exploring that relationship, because I really really wanted to. I do fully intend to write probably one, maybe two more chapters to this story, so stay tuned if you enjoy this first one! Thank you all!

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><p>John's fist closed around the wadded rag in his hand, squeezing the excess water and blood from it and into the bowl. He dabbed the warm cloth on Sherlock's forehead, gently wiping blood away from Sherlock's eye and brow, where a fairly extensive cut marred the normally white skin.<p>

"How ever did you survive without me before?" John asked, shaking his head as he rinsed out the rag again.

"I'm not incompetent you know John, I don't need other people to take care of me."

John snorted, grabbing Sherlock's head with his free hand when he jerked it away. "Yes you do. So who was it? Or were you just very lucky?"

Sherlock smiled wryly to himself, but kept quiet. His mind as ever though, was alert and exploring the memories that John's comment had conjured…

_Five years earlier. _

"-on. Son? Are you all right?"

Sherlock's head was pounding, and his vision swam sickeningly.

_**Information: Head pounding, dizzy vision, sick feeling in stomach, pain in ribs, inhale difficult. **_

_**Conclusion, concussion, three cracked ribs on left side. Multiple cases of bruising. I'm fine. **_

"Fne- I'm fine.." Sherlock slurred out, impatiently waving away the woman who was bent over him in concern. She was an elderly woman, dressed neatly and conservatively, her kind eyes peering down at him with a worry that annoyed him. Couldn't she see there were bigger things going on than this? He still hadn't told the police about the killer. A buzz vibrated through his ribs and he sucked in a breath as the cellphone's text message alert aggravated the fresh fractures in his ribcage. Fumbling for his phone and trying to sit up at the same time, Sherlock barely realized the woman was talking to him again until she had nearly finished.

"-an ambulance should be on its way."

Sherlock's head snapped up at the woman's comment from where he was now leaning against the alley wall. The action sent a sickening wave of pain and nausea through him and he didn't have time to protest her decision to send him to a hospital before he got sick all over the pavement. The woman, instead of backing away, was at his side and now kneeling next to him; not an easy position in a woman of her age with an obviously deteriorating hip Sherlock noted, but she was there anyway. Smoothing back his hair and rubbing his back. Sherlock wanted to shake her off, but her ministrations reminded him of his mother and the comfort he used to accept from her. He was too sick to bother anyhow.

Fumbling for his phone again, Sherlock managed to squint at the headache intensifying screen and read the text he'd received.

_Killer apprehended, thanks for nothing. Freak._

Sherlock leaned back against the wall again, painting for breath and snapping the phone shut in frustration. He should have noticed the patterns, should have _known_ that man was behind him. All Sherlock wanted to do was lay there in pain and humiliation by himself, and this blasted good Samaritan wouldn't let him.

"Son, are you feeling any better? Would you like some water?" The woman asked him gently, her hand still on his shoulder.

"No, I don't need anything I'm fine. Get off of me!" Sherlock said, his irritation bleeding into his words as freely as the cut in his scalp. The woman backed away slightly, but didn't leave. Sherlock braced himself, trying to get up unsuccessfully. If she wasn't going to leave, then he'd have to. He made it half way to his feet before feeling too sick to continue and he was forced to freeze half standing against the wall, the woman hovering around him, not touching him but obviously wanting to help.

"They should be here any second, please, don't try to get up. You'll injure yourself worse." She pleaded with him.

Sherlock turned his head and glared at her until the pain in his head forced him to shut his eyes. Moving one more time, Sherlock involuntarily inhaled sharply in reaction to the ache in his skull, and was rewarded with a burning, shooting pain in his side as his broken ribs ground together. Crippled by the pain and the concussion, Sherlock's body took the initiative and shut him down, causing him to collapse in the alley right as the ambulance arrived.

When Sherlock next woke up coherently he was not where his logical mind had expected him to be. Instead of scrubbed walls and starched sheets, Sherlock found himself tucked into a very comfortable, very large bed, his chest tight with bandages and his headache a dull buzz behind what he assumed were lots and lots of painkillers. The light in the room was thankfully dim, and it smelled faintly of roses.

"There you are darling." A kind voice came filtering through the air. Sherlock's sharp mind struggled to focus on the voice through the drugs. He decided that he did NOT like the drugs that did this to his brain. They weren't conducive to thinking at all. A hand slipped behind Sherlock's head and a glass was held to his lips. At first he fought the attention, but he was thirsty and so allowed himself to drink the offered sustenance.

"I know you were probably expecting to be at the hospital, but they said there was nothing more they could do for you and your brother seemed busy when he showed up, so I promised him I would take care of you."

Sherlock closed his eyes again, blinking slowly as his vision cleared and he was finally able to see his caretaker clearly. He wanted to tell the woman that all he needed to do was get back to his flat, but he suddenly felt very tired and all he could manage was a nod to show her that he understood.

"Good dear. Now, my name is Mrs. Hudson. Your brother and the doctors told me your name is Sherlock. Just rest your head Sherlock, and try not to move onto your left side. I'll be waking you up every two hours until we're sure your concussion is taken care of, other than that I'll let you be. I've got a glass of water here by the bed if you need it, and if you need more medicine or tea or anything of the sort just ring this bell I have nearby and I'll come running. My husband is out and I'm not busy, so don't worry about bothering me. If you need anything all you have to do is just call." Not letting Sherlock respond, Mrs. Hudson stood, patting Sherlock's chest gently and setting the water on the nightstand. Sherlock feel asleep again before she even left the room.

The next time Sherlock woke up on his own, he was much more clear headed, and the pain medications had worn off. Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position, his eyes roaming the room at lightning speeds, taking in every detail about Mrs. Hudson and her life from his surroundings.

_**Middleclass, married for 20, no, 30 years. Unhappy for the last five. Husband away most of the time. Mrs. Hudson raised four children, has grandchildren but doesn't get to see them much. She still has a mothering instinct. I've activated it.**_

Sherlock looked up at a sound to the sight of Mrs. Hudson approaching with a tray of tea and toast.

"Good, you're awake!" She exclaimed. "It's been ages since I last let you fall asleep. We were past the danger period with your concussion; you've been sleeping for twelve hours!" She exclaimed, setting the tray down and sitting on the edge of the bed, putting her hand on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock flinched away from her touch, his face twisting in disgust. He was fine, couldn't she see that! And how could he have let himself sleep for so long?

"Yes, thank you for your hospitality." He said brusquely. He was going to have words with Mycroft later. "I've imposed on you for far too long; it's time I'm going. My head feels much better." He said, moving to get up. Mrs. Hudson put a firm hand on his shoulder and forced him to sit back again.

"Oh no, you are not leaving my house until you've had something to eat. Your head may be doing better, and thank the Lord for that, but if you faint of hunger then you'll re-crack your ribs. Just lay back and have some tea at least."

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock replied curtly.

"Well, then this will just sit there until you are, and you're not leaving until that food is gone. And not down the toilet either."

_**Four kids and grandchildren. I'm going to kill Mycroft.**_

Sherlock set his jaw momentarily, before accepting the tea and submitting himself to Mrs. Hudson's efforts. The one thing he didn't allow her to see however, was that he was still in a lot of pain. He refused to have his brain muddled in that drug induced fog again. A different kind of drugs could be used later.

"Yes. Of course." He said, sipping on the tea and forcing out a smile. "Thank you."

As quickly as he could, Sherlock finished the meal. The entire time Mrs. Hudson didn't bother him once, but he could feel eyes watching him. Not in an unfriendly way, but definitely in a motherly way.

_**FOUR kids Mycroft. I'm Twenty Eight, I don't need a mum anymore.**_

Once done with his food and tea, Mrs. Hudson returned with a fresh glass of water and some more painkillers, which Sherlock discreetly slipped into his jacket pocket as he got dressed. It hadn't escaped his notice that he was in a pair of men's pajamas, not his, but fit him perfectly, and that he hadn't gotten himself into them. He couldn't help but feel violated that he didn't know who exactly had maneuvered him into the sleeping clothes. It wasn't a case of modesty, it was a case of the fact that Sherlock hated being fussed over in the first place. And being changed while unconscious was the lowest of the low in his opinion. Into pajamas his brother so obviously bought him no less. He deftly buttoned his own shirt and slipped his suit jacket over that to ban the thoughts.

Leaving the room in search of his coat, Sherlock was greeted by Mrs. Hudson, who was holding his coat and scarf out to him.

"I rinsed your scarf and washed it for you, it was full of blood. I almost had to throw it out. There didn't seem to be much on your coat though." She said.

"Yes, thank you very much Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said, giving her a polite smile as he put on his coat and scarf. "So sorry to impose, your hospitality has been most- unexpected." Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around Mrs. Hudson's, and she smiled back, unsure of what to make of this strange youth.

"Yes, well, take care of yourself Sherlock. It's little wonder you broke those ribs, sticking out as they are. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

_**So she's the one who dressed me. Stupid. Obvious.**_

"I'll be fine. Thank you." Sherlock said, giving her hand a final squeeze and leaving out the front door and back into the streets of London.

In a city like that, not even Sherlock Holmes could have predicted that Mrs. Hudson and he would meet again. 


	2. Christmas Eve

Thank you all for the great response on the first chapter! Keep those reviews coming! ;) Just a warning, this story will take a turn where abuse will be suggested but not actually displayed. If that bothers you, please read with caution.

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><p>Sherlock had his back to the store front when she entered, and as such she recognized him before he recognized her.<p>

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned around, confused at the friendly way the woman behind him addressed him. He wasn't used to people recognizing him, and if they did it was never a good thing. Before him stood Mrs. Hudson, wearing her usual style, but it was appropriately Christmasified. She looked different since the last time Sherlock had seen her almost eight months ago.

_**Malnourished, stressed acutely. Hip deteriorated further. Unhappy marriage turned from ignored to borderline abusive, verbally at least. Not sleeping. Trying to put on a front for the holidays, possibly grandchildren visiting. **_

"Yes, hello Mrs. Hudson." He responded, taking down his carton of milk, the only thing besides a set of nicotine patches he'd left the flat to get. Christmas Eve, everyone was being so boring. It was after Christmas that the interesting cases spawned by scorned loves and drunk encounters popped up, and never before.

"Merry Christmas. I trust you've been doing better? Though it looks like you haven't eaten anymore. I trust the holidays will help to fix that. Meeting up with your brother are you?" She asked, trying to sustain polite conversation.

_**Avoiding returning home. No grandchildren to see then, just her husband. She's frightened of him**_**.**

"No, Mycroft will be busy. Christmas isn't a big concern in my family."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes lit with sympathy and hope in the same instant, and Sherlock instantly saw what was coming. "Well then, you should come home and have dinner with me and my husband! He'd be thrilled to have a guest, the poor weather has stopped our children and grandchildren from visiting this year, and it's ever so lonely. It'll give me a chance to try and put some meat on your bones."

_**She wants protection. Christmas induces drinking, conclusion her husband will be worse tonight than usual. She wants someone there so he will be forced to act more civil according to social guidelines.**_

"You should go to the police you know." Sherlock informed her quietly, his crystal gaze showing her he knew.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson said, her tone laced with nervousness and alarm. "Not on Christmas. I wouldn't want to disrupt anyone's family tonight. Besides, he won't be that bad. It's Christmas, how bad could things get?"

_**Irrational belief in the superstitious falsehood that Christmas fixes everything. Fact: She's more intelligent than that. Conclusion: She's desperate to enjoy this year.**_

"Could you please- just, no-one should be alone on Christmas." She said, reaching out a hand to rest on Sherlock's. He looked down at their hands but made no move to discourage the contact.

"I suppose I could come for a while. There's nothing interesting outside anyway."

Sherlock politely declined Mrs. Hudson's offer for him to ride in her car, and instead got her address down, taking a cab home and then to her house after he'd put his groceries away. He looked at the address as he made his way back to the street to hail a cab. 221B Baker Street. It was a nice district, nicer than the one that Sherlock was currently living in.

Reaching his destination, Sherlock knocked on the door, waiting to be let in. Mrs. Hudson was at the door almost before he'd had a chance to rap on the door twice, ushering him inside with an unmistakable sense of relief about her features.

"Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock nodded politely, as though he hadn't just met her at the store. "Thank you for inviting me." He said, even though his attention was scanning the entire flat rather than focusing on Mrs. Hudson as she led him into the kitchen. She took his coat and scarf from him before introducing him to her husband.

The man before Sherlock was a few years older than Mrs. Hudson, but markedly stronger in physical stature and health. He was tall, well built for a man his age, and still had a sharp gaze. His hand took Sherlock's in an iron grip. "Ron Hudson, Merry Christmas Mr. Holmes."

_**Good physical health for his age, save for a marked gimp in his right leg. Long time drinker, dominating nature that must be satisfied. Used to work in a factory, discontinued and retired because of leg injury cause by machinery. Lack of stimuli from work and former hobby of horseback riding devolved into drinking and gambling to stimulate interest and thrill. Unhappy marriage blamed on his wife, she's not interesting enough for him any longer.**_

"Sherlock." He said curtly, taking his hand away as soon as possible. He understood the man's predicament, but his method of relieving his boredom disgusted him.

"All right boys, let's sit down and have grace, shall we? The turkey's finally finished." Mrs. Hudson said with forced cheer. Even with Sherlock's presence she was still afraid.

_**Conclusion, marriage is turning from verbally abusive to the threat of physical abuse**_**. **

The dinner went well, but Sherlock's acute senses picked up the fact that Mr. Hudson barely tolerated her invitation to a guest last minute.

_**He needs control.**_

Sherlock's presence however, did have the desired effect. Ron did attempt to get Sherlock to drink with him, but when Sherlock declined Mr. Hudson was forced to restrict his alcohol intake accordingly to fit within polite social guidelines. The relief Mrs. Hudson felt was palpable.

After the dinner was finished Sherlock waited around long enough to be considered socially polite, and long enough to ensure that the combination of food intake instead of alcohol coupled with the alcohol Mr. Hudson did consume would put him to sleep. In exactly the amount of time Sherlock predicted, Mr. Hudson had fallen asleep on the couch, Mrs. Hudson assuring Sherlock that he wouldn't wake again until morning. While her husband was snoring on the couch, Mrs. Hudson retrieved Sherlock's coat and scarf and walked him to the front door, looking immeasurably grateful. "Thank you so much Sherlock. You don't know what this means to me." She said earnestly, looking somewhat embarrassed at the same time. "I know you don't know me very well, so it means even more that you were willing to join me."

Sherlock finished buttoning his undercoat and wound the scarf around his neck. "The police would listen if you told them you were afraid." Sherlock said. "He may not be physically abusive yet, but he's going to be."

Mrs. Hudson bit her lip, shaking her head. "No, he's just needing a new hobby, and it's not his fault his leg hurts. It's really not that bad."

Sherlock drew his head back some but didn't argue. "Well, if you change your mind, I will help you." He said, scribbling down his information on a slip of paper. "You don't have to live under this." He said, pressing the scrap into her hand. She closed her fingers around it like it was the only lifeline she had.

"Thank you Sherlock." She said, tears standing in her eyes. She reached up and kissed his cheek, leaving him surprised. "Merry Christmas.


	3. Debt

Hey guys! Thank you SO MUCH for all of your awesome reviews! I hope I did OK with this chapter, the next one is going to be the tricky part. I'll do my best, but the next chapter will be longer and probably take longer. Let me know how I'm doing if you feel so inclined!

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><p>It had been four months since the Christmas dinner with Mrs. Hudson when Sherlock's phone rang with an unfamiliar number. This in and of itself was not unusual, but the voice on the other end was not something Sherlock expected to hear.<p>

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes."

"This is Megan from The Princess Grace Hospital, we have a Mrs. Hudson here who has you listed as her next of kin aside from her husband."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised in surprise. "What happened?"

"She was brought in with a broken hip, she's in surgery right now, but we need you on hand in case we need decisions made. We've tried to contact her husband, but so far he hasn't answered."

"I'll be there in a half an hour."

When Sherlock got to the hospital, Mrs. Hudson was out of surgery but still deeply asleep. According to the doctors, she would be able to walk again and resume most normal activity, but she would suffer from chronic hip pain for the rest of her life. Sitting by her bed, Sherlock puzzled over one thing he didn't yet fully understand. It was plain that she had adopted him as a son in her own mind, and it was also plain why her husband was not in the picture.

_**Fractured hip, bruises on the lower forearms, signs indicative of a struggle. Frame further deteriorated from lack of sleep and proper nutrition. Conclusion: marriage now physically abusive, husband cause of the injuries. **_

All this had been crystal clear to Sherlock from the moment he'd received the phone call. What Sherlock couldn't decide, is why he was listed instead of one of her children or grandchildren. Surely her children were capable, and according to the evidence, she had at least one daughter who lived less than an hour away.

_**Conclusion, they don't know and she doesn't want them to know that their father is abusive.**_ _**She trusts me because I already know. She associates my presence with safety after Christmas dinner. **_

Sherlock just wished she'd called him before it had gotten to this. Unneeded anywhere else and caseless yet again, Sherlock stayed by Mrs. Hudson's bedside until she woke several hours later, employing his uncanny ability to go without food or sleep to stay with her.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson whispered as she came awake, squinting in his direction. She was still too groggy to realize how much pain she was in.

"It's me." Sherlock said, leaning forward on the bedrail towards her. "Where is he?" the detective asked, his voice lined with a dangerous tone. Not towards Mrs. Hudson, but towards the man who put her there.

Mrs. Hudson looked like she was about to cry, and she turned her head away from Sherlock. Sherlock shifted in his chair, frustrated and trying to make himself understand.

_**She obviously doesn't want to talk, but why? Wouldn't she want me to know where he is so she can press charges? No. She never pressed charges before, which means she doesn't want to know and is still afraid of him. Methods must change.**_

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock began more gently, tentatively slipping his hand into hers. "I can help you. Tell me where he's gone. This is more than enough to have him tied up legally for a while at least."

The distraught woman in the bed before him turned her head slowly to face him, silent tears streaking down her cheeks. "He's gone." She said quietly. "At least, I think he is. He said he was going to America."

Sherlock drew back. "America?" He mouthed to himself, why would he do that? What could he get out of America? He could be trying to run from the law, but Mrs. Hudson obviously was too afraid to talk. If she hadn't come forward already she wasn't going to. And Mr. Hudson couldn't have known that she listed Sherlock as her next of kin. She would never have shared something like that with him, the implications of why were obvious.

_**Gambling debt. He was running from people he owed money to. **_

"Where in America? Did he tell you?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, closing her eyes. The overload of sensory and emotional information was obviously too much. Sherlock pursed his lips, frustrated at her lack of response. Taking a breath to calm himself, Sherlock instead squeezed Mrs. Hudson's hand gently and stood, leaving the hospital room quietly.

Sherlock took a cab back to 221B and found the spare key under the mat (could it be anymore obvious?). He let himself in and immediately started looking around.

_**Husband left in a hurry between nine and ten am. Flights to America scheduled within probable time frame to New York and to Florida. Clothes taken and amount of time taken to get ready ahead of time suggests he had this trip lined up for quite some time. Too cold for shorts in New York right now, took flight to Florida. **_

Sherlock turned away and re-locked the flat as soon as he was finished, calling Mycroft on the way out. "Don't be smart Mycroft, I need a favor and you owe me one after I cleaned up your mess with the last case." Sherlock snapped the moment his brother picked up the phone with a snarky greeting. "I need to go to Florida."


	4. America

__I'm sorry that this isn't longer, but it was such a good spot to cut it off. The next chapter shouldn't take too long! Thank you to EVERYONE who reviewed the last chapter, it honestly helped me to tackle this kind of story and to get the next chapter up soon. So thank you and please keep the reviews coming!

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><p><em>Florida, USA, 3 pm EST. <em>

Sherlock got off his brother's private jet with an undeniable interest causing his blood to rush. He'd never been to America, and definitely not to a place that was classified as tropic. It was a stark change from London's often rainy atmosphere. He decided within fifteen minutes of being there that he didn't like it. He refused to wear shorts or anything that he wouldn't normally wear, but he was forced to lose his wool coat and cashmere scarf. His neck already felt naked.

Sherlock knew he would immediately stand out as a foreigner, but this would help him to blend in as a tourist instead of a man with a very clear purpose. Sherlock was glad that his profile outlined a wealthy Englishman in town to gamble and conduct business. That meant that he would probably be allowed to skip wearing the khaki shorts and obnoxiously loud flowery button shirts. And _sandals_. He'd rather go back to his cleric costume with the itchy collar.

His first task was to procure some accommodations and then go looking for his target. From the evidence he'd been able to collect, he knew that Orlando was going to be his focus. Big cities meant money and shady business. It was the same all over the world. The more people there were, the more they thought they could get away with murder. And the more Sherlock found himself deeply amused by the criminal classes. They were all so _thick_. As Sherlock made his way out of the airport, he was greeted by someone in a car and a text from Mycroft.

_Enjoy your stay little brother. Do try to put some color into that ghastly white of your skin. People might start mistaking you for a flesh and blood person. I've procured a room at the hotel the driver will take you to. Don't worry about food or the room, even though I know you won't use either. –MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and got into the car with his brother's obviously American contact.

"Once you've dropped me off I don't want to see you again, understand?" Sherlock said to his driver. "You'll throw my cover and that's the last thing I need."

The driver, obviously having been warned about Sherlock and his attitude, simply nodded and drove.

Sherlock could say one thing for the room his brother had set for him, it worked for his purposes. It fit his personality too (his character personality at least), which meant that he would be able to get away with not wearing the shorts and flowery shirts. Thank the heavens. It also probably meant that he could get away with not going tanning or doing pointless laps in a pool during the day. Maybe Florida _could_ be tolerable.

_You shouldn't have sent my driver away by the way. Your character would be wealthy enough to hire a car. It's all my money funding you anyway Sherlock, don't be proud. He'll be back at seven to take you to a casino to eat and begin gambling. Just a hint brother, real people on vacation eat. –MH_

_And you're welcome. I could have thrown a few Hawaiian shirts into the mix, I hear they're very popular. -MH_

Sherlock clenched his jaw at his brother's meddling. None the less, he was ready to leave at seven o' clock sharp.

People at Casinos were nothing if not mildly interesting. Sherlock found himself amused by the foolish and drink influenced bets that people blindly made. It was painfully obvious to Sherlock which bets would go through, and which would not. As such he made quite a killing at the craps table and the poker games.

_**Take that Mycroft. **_

Once Sherlock had made a few rounds and played his cards right, both figuratively and literally, he began making friends with some of the obviously more frequent and compulsive gamblers. Sitting at the bar, Sherlock learned a lot more about these men than he wanted to. Not like that was something he wasn't used to.

"So, strange knack for cards you have there." Angelo said, nudging Sherlock amiably. "I've never seen someone play like that before! I would say you were cheating, but I'm the master of that and I would have spotted anything you did illegally." He laughed, winking and downing some more liquor.

Sherlock smiled back.

_**Idiot.**_

"You're not from around here, are you?"

_**Obviously.**_

"You from over the pond by chance? London maybe?"

_**Moron.**_

Sherlock smiled broadly. "Spot on actually. Just visiting the states on business. Wanted a bit of pleasure alongside it."

Angelo nodded, swirling the drink in his glass. "Don't we all? Ahh, business. What we must to do get to the real meaning of life. Booze and chicks. Handsome foreigner like you, you probably won't have to do anything but say a few words to get a girl for the night. Or two." He said, winking again. Sherlock could feel his IQ dropping.

_**Every country has an Anderson.**_

"We'll see. I can't get too distracted, I have quite the deal to finish tomorrow. After that it's time to really get out."

Angelo raised his glass in a salute, bowing his head as well. "I can respect that. I'm guessing you're meeting up with your partner to discuss things before the meeting too, huh?"

Sherlock froze. "My partner?"

"Yeah. That other English guy. He was in here earlier, dressed real well, gambling all over. Let me tell you though, he's not half as good as you are."

Sherlock gave him a wry smile. "I know."

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><p>Yes, I had far too much fun with Sherlock's thoughts in this chapter.<p> 


	5. In the Dark of Night

Okay guys, thank you SO MUCH for all of the wonderful reviews for the last chapter! WOW! So much love to all of you. As for the whole thing with Angelo, well, I'm a bit embarrassed. I COMPLETELY forgot that the restaurant owner's name was Angelo and totally just pulled that name out of the air. So no, sorry, it's not the same guy. I'm not that clever. Anyway, I made this chapter extra long so you would all love me! (Until the end. When I know you will all hate me.) Sorry it took a bit longer than the other ones, but the story is drawing to a close so the next chapter and probably the last will be up before you know it! (this does not excuse you from reviewing.-.-) Lol. Anyway, thanks SO MUCH to all who have been reading this, and please enjoy!

P.S. I did a moderate amount of research to get locations and such correct, but this story really just got a mind of its own. When I first started writing it I never imagined it would go this far. But it has. So apologies for inconsistencies or false info.

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><p>It didn't take long for Sherlock to find out what hotel Mrs. Hudson's husband was staying in. Apparently he was an absolute moron when it came to disappearing. He obviously thought that being in another country across an ocean was going to be enough. If the men he owed money to were a fifth as intelligent as Sherlock was they wouldn't be far around the corner.<p>

Coincidentally, Mr. Hudson was not in when Sherlock was, so he let himself into the room, silvery eyes darting around in a disgusted amusement. He'd spared no expense. This idiot was just digging himself in deeper and deeper by the moment. Taking up residence in the chair that resided in the middle of the sitting room, Sherlock proceeded to steeple his fingers and close his eyes, waiting like a spider in his web. He knew his prey was just out for some dinner and pre-gambling. He'd be coming back to change and retrieve his real stash of money before heading out to get into the seedy areas of the casinos. Sherlock would see him before he even had time to shut the door.

_**Miscalculation.**_

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He'd been sitting statue still for the past two hours when a marked sound alerted him to his mistake. "So. The men Ronald Hudson owes money to must be very wealthy, to have hired someone so quiet." Sherlock said calmly, the feeling of a cold blade against the side of his neck. He turned his head to look back at his would-be assassin. "Tell me, how much does he owe, that they would send an assassin after him? Or is it more than that?" Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a quirked smile. "Oh, I see."

_**Small build, athletic, expert assassin trained from an early age. Foreign. Knife American made, guilding on the handle, mark of the eye of Horus. Horus: Ancient Egyptian god, adopted by the lately successful Eye of Horus smugglers. Oh Mr. Hudson. You have been busy. **_

Before the man knew what he was doing, Sherlock had disarmed him and had him pinned to the floor face down, his hands held fast in Sherlock's iron grip, the detective's knee in between his shoulder blades for good measure.

"He's off closing the deal right now, isn't he?" Sherlock taunted, leaning over his would be assassin. "Of course. He got in too deep, so he helped them smuggle in order to get out of debt. He knows too much though, doesn't he? So as soon as they've got what they want out of him they kill him to make an example of him. He's cleverer than I thought. He was smart enough to cover up all ties with the Eye of Horus. Thank you ever so much for trying to kill me, it was very useful." Sherlock said, slamming his elbow into the back of the man's head, effectively knocking him out.

So Mr. Hudson didn't have gambling on his mind tonight. If the assassin was already there then that meant that Ron was in the middle of a deal right then. From the Intel that Sherlock had stolen from Mycroft (His brother certainly hadn't noticed, after all, Sherlock had merely taken it because he was bored. It wasn't like the Eye of Horus smugglers were really a threat to the British government, at least not yet.), very little was known about the smuggling gang except for the fact that they killed with knives when they could, and left their victims with a bloody Anch carved into the chest over the heart. Their own private joke, apparently, carving the Egyptian symbol for eternal life into the corpses they created. What Sherlock didn't know, was where they would seal the deal.

_**Fact. The Eye of Horus gang is very preoccupied with their ritual and the symbolism that they've chosen. Conclusion, they will choose a place themed accordingly. Fact. No casinos in the area are themed appropriately. Conclusion, casino is unlikely. Conclusion, museum next best choice. Fact. Orlando Museum of Art is nearby. **_

Sherlock took a few seconds to allow his fingers to dance across his phone, looking up the Orlando Museum of Art.

_**Fact. Orlando Museum of Art is hosting a two night limited edition display of Egyptian artwork.**_

Sherlock lost no time in leaving the hotel room. Once outside, Mycroft's man was waiting for him. "Take me to Lockhaven Park. And then _leave._" Sherlock commanded with emphasis.

The driver nodded, merely handing a gun over the back of his seat towards Sherlock.

_Take the gun Sherlock, there is more for you in the trunk. Do use it, I don't feel like arranging the paperwork for your funeral. I have a headache as it is.-MH_

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but took the weapon.

Ten minutes later, thanks to the driver's creative maneuvering, Sherlock was dropped off in Lockhaven park, as he requested. Tucking the gun snugly against the small of his back, Sherlock proceeded to move forward, knowing that since the assassin had already been at the hotel room Mr. Hudson was obviously going to just be leaving the museum. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard hushed voices as they came through the trees. Sherlock ducked under the cover of a well contrasting shadow cast by a thickly leafed tropical monster, cursing the full moon and at the same time hoping that the smugglers would be too comfortable to realize it was a disadvantage. After all, no police had shown up and their deal was done. They should be able to go hole up in a casino or hotel for the rest of the evening with no problems.

Sherlock waited where he was for a good while as the various members of the gang bled from their hiding spots into the moonlight, their garbled conversations consisting of women and booze. Sherlock's brain marked them unimportant and instead focused on the sounds that told him where the men were in relation to himself. At least four were off to the right, six more off to the left. As long as Sherlock stayed where he was, there was no reason that they should see him. Unless...

"There! Who are you, show yourself!" Sherlock sighed. It had been worth a try. He came out, hurried and hunched, hands up and gun still safely tucked at the small of his back. He didn't want these people to know that he was actually armed. His eyes darted around in a show of fear.

_**Each man armed with knife, guns present and aimed, obviously the knife isn't a rule.**_

"P-please." He stuttered, weakening his voice. "I was only trying to make my way back to the hotel, and I am so very fond of taking a stroll in the evenings. I thought this park was open, they always are in England. Do forgive me."

One of the gang snorted, gesturing at Sherlock with his gun, instantly off his guard. "Hey, Ronnie, here's one of your type sniviling around. Maybe you can help a chap out." He said, mocking Sherlock's accent. Sherlock's eyes instantly darted over to the figure still cloaked in shadow underneath one of the nearby trees. The way the figure favored one leg and the build quickly identified it as Ron Hudson. Sherlock doubted Ron would remember him, but he none the less kept his head somewhat down in a show of fear to hide his face.

"Yeah, ok, I got him." Ron said gruffly, trying too hard obviously.

Sherlock felt a rough hand seize his arm and he allowed himself to be pulled away.

_**Perfect. **_

"Yeah, you go and teach him what it's like to be in the US of A. We'll meet up with you later."

They were almost out of earshot when the gang shouted back again. "Oh and Ron!"

Sherlock could feel his captor freeze, muscles tense and breathing shallow. He was afraid.

"Nice work. You do your country proud."

The statement was followed by mocking laughter. The moment Ron was sure that the men weren't going to come back, he dragged Sherlock further into the trees, quickly pulling a gun on him and holding it to his head. Sherlock took the moment to straighten up, keeping his hands up none the less.

"Really? A gun? I thought you were part of the brotherhood now, Ron Hudson." Sherlock said, his normal, deep baritone returning. He could see his opponent falter.

"So you do recognize me." Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing and his lips curling into a sly smile. "Good." He stepped forward, forcing Ron back so that he was fully exposed in the moonlight, Sherlock still drenched in shadow.

"When did it start, Ron?" Sherlock asked, taking another step. "The bordom." Another step. " The need to do something else." he advanced further. "When did you relationship with your wife become so _boring _that you felt the need to physically _attack _her?" Sherlock's voice hurled the last three words at Mr. Hudson with the force of bullets. "When did you quit being a man?" Sherlock bit, finally stepping into the moonlight, his eyes catching the light in rings of silver so bright they were like those of a panther's, his lithe movements matching the animal's gate, his predatory stance dwarfing the smaller man. "Did you really think that America would hide you?"

Ron fumbled, his face white and his hands shaking. He held the gun up again, but Sherlock didn't bother to raise his hands. "You lose Mr. Hudson. Now, we can make things easy on you. You can confess to being a part of this smuggling operation and abusing your wife, and you'll get away with a _very_ long jail sentence back in England. Or you can run, and see just how bad I make the charges for you when I find you again. And make no mistake, Mr. Hudson. I _will _find you."

Ron shook his head, "I can't go down for this. I'm too close now." Suddenly, in no more than the blink of an eye, his fear turned to raw survivial and he shot wildly, bolting away through the trees and into the darkness. Sherlock, momentarily deafened by the shot, quickly gave pursuit, grateful that Mr. Hudson was such a lousy shot.

Because of the fear and adrenaline pushing Sherlock's target, it took the detective longer than normal to catch up to him. When he did however, the situation had drastically changed. Ron had fled into a residential area, which wouldn't have been a problem if one woman hadn't decided to take her dog out in the middle of the night. The small terrier went yelping off into the darkness, leash dragging and leaving its owner clasped against Ron's chest and terrified. Sherlock came to a skidding halt a few feet away from Mr. Hudson and his human shield, putting his hands up in a placating gesture.

_**Target sweating, panting, eyes rolling. Frightened, adrenaline, not thinking. Excess weight and injury will not allow him to run from me again. He knows this, therefore he will be much more likely to act rashly. Must proceed with caution. **_

"Ron, you're only digging yourself in deeper. A hostage case will only solidify your time in jail. You aren't going to be able to outrun me again." Sherlock beckoned towards himself. "Let her go."

The frightened man shook his head, pressing his gun to the side of her head. The woman whimpered, closing her eyes as tears streaked down her cheeks.

_**Fact: He's afraid of me, and of being caught. Fact: he's also afraid of the gang he's got himself tied up in. Fact: fear is all he can think about. Conclusion: Make him feel safe.**_

"Ron, come away from her, and I'll help you. I'm Sherlock Holmes, the best detective in Europe, I can help you and you will not be harmed. I know that the Eye of Horus won't let you get away with helping them. You know too much. I've been at your hotel and there was an assassin waiting for you. If you don't come with me the'll be more. If you do come with me now, I have contacts in the British government that can get you to safety." Sherlock said evenly, keeping his eyes at all times locked with Ron's, his hands where the frightened man could see them.

"Y-you promise?" He began, loosening his grip on the gun. Suddenly his eyes changed, and his finger tightened on the trigger again. "How can I know this isn't just some ploy? How do I know that you aren't a spy for the government who was pumping my wife for information at Christmas?" He accused, pressing the gun harder against his hostage's head.

"You don't." Sherlock admitted. "But I'm not. And I will help you. Just put the gun down." Sherlock said carefully "And I'll call my driver to come and get us. We can be back on the flight to England tonight."

Ron wavered for a moment, the battle between his terror and his common sense raging in his eyes. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he let down the gun, the arm around his hostage going limp and allowing the woman to escape his grasp. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, but it was far too soon. The next sequence of events only happened in seconds, fractions of seconds, but to Sherlock they stretched into slow motion.

Ron dropped his gun, his arm loosened.

Sherlock relaxed, stepping forward and reaching his hands back to sweep aside his coat and settle his hands on his hips, still somewhat out of breath from his sprint through the unfamiliarity muggy air.

Ron's eyes darted downwards, watching every movement Sherlock made, and as Sherlock's hips turned just slightly, the moonlight winked off of metal still tucked in the detective's waistband.

Ron snapped. One shot was fired off, squarely hitting the woman in the back before she could get very far at all, and then a second shot was fired.

Sherlock felt the impact like a train hitting him in the chest, and the next thing he knew he was on the ground, unable to breath, his fingers grasping at the center of his ribcage where a bullet hole marred his shirt.

All he could make out over the pain was the sound of heavily running footsteps.

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><p>Reviewing has been clinically proven to increase update speeds. Just saying.<p> 


	6. Deadly Shadow

Well, this is it folks. Thank you all SO MUCH for the amazing reviews you all gave me. Thanks to those who said they loved it, and to those who were honest enough to tell me they thought Sherlock was a bit OOC. I tried my best, but your opinions are very valuable to me. I honestly feel guilty for not updating sooner or making the story longer, but this is where it was headed the whole time. Please, if you feel so kind leave me a final review to say goodbye and let me know if I wrapped it up OK.

Thank you all! I love you guys!

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><p>The hotel room into which Ron Hudson stumbled was filled with his heavy breathing. He stood panting, gasping for breath, his side in stiches from running far more than his body was used to. He had to get out, <em>now<em>.

Tripping forward into the room, he stopped short, white as a sheet as he saw a man laying face down on his floor. The detective's warning about an assassin came back to him, but after spending several long moments in frozen terror, he realized that the man was out cold, maybe dead. Able to move once again, he rushed around the room, gathering his things in a whirlwind of confusion.

He hadn't been at his task very long when a shadow in the corner _moved_. Frozen once again, his heart palpitating painfully, his eyes stared wide into the shadows, thoughts of another assassin rushing through his terrorized mind.

"Good guess. But no."

Sherlock stepped forward out of the shadows, hands in his pockets, the frayed parts of his shirt from the bullet hole standing out in the light cast by the moon as it glanced through the window.

Ron gaped, his breathing becoming more and more labored.

"Ever think about what meeting the dead might be like, Ron Hudson?" Sherlock asked him, head cocked slightly to the side. "What your fate might be like?"

"Y-you- I s-shot you!"

"Yes, very astute observation. Right in the heart as well. Or you would have, if I had any. According to general consensus I don't. Which is why I didn't hesitate to turn you in. The police are on their way Mr Hudson, and with a homicide, multiple accounts of smuggling, and an attempted homicide on your record, I imagine quite soon you will find out what it is like to meet the dead. Florida has a very good system on death row. Do take a moment to come back and tell me, if you aren't too busy screaming, will you? I've never believed in an afterlife, but who can be sure, without data." Sherlock's eyes narrowed to silvery slits on the last word, his voice soft and mocking.

Mr Hudson trembled violently, his hand fumbling for his gun, pointing it at Sherlock.

Sherlock clucked his tongue and looked at him with mock sympathy. "Do you really think that will work, after it failed so miserably last time?"

"You could have been wearin a vest, or something of the like." Ron said, straightening up, his nerves steeling as he talked himself out of the superstitious fright Sherlock had induced. "Shooting you in the head would have a much different outcome."

"For me, yes. For you, no." Sherlock said, still unconcerned. Backing his words, the police sirens came into earshot and blue and red lights started flashing in, disrupting the moonlight. "Kill me now, and you will have a very thorough execution after endless court battles, my brother will see to that. He's too cold to let you die quickly. Right now it's not personal for him, I wouldn't advise making it so."

Sweat trickled down Ron's face, exhaustion taking him over. He lowered the gun.

"I told you if you ran I would make things worse. You should have listened." Sherlock said, as footsteps came pounding up the stairs, the clinking sounds of guns and flashlights and metal filling the hall leading to the room.

"I understand boredom, Mr. Hudson. But it takes a tiny mind indeed to find solace from that boredom in attacking someone who has absolutely nothing she can do against you. Maybe on death row you'll figure out that your life could have been better spent elsewhere."

Sherlock didn't move as the police broke into the room, holding Ron at gunpoint and bringing out their cuffs. In the other room, a few policemen were already cuffing and escorting the just now conscious assassin from the room. He would be a valuable asset in tracking down the rest of the gang. So would Mr. Hudson, if he lived long enough.

"Are you all right sir? We have a medical team on hand, in case you need attention." One of the police men said, noticing the tell tale signs of a severely bruised chest that Sherlock couldn't help but exhibit. His breathing was purposely shallow. Sherlock waved a hand. "I'm fine. See you at the court date." He said dismissively, turning and moving out of the room and past the police, breaking away from the clamor that he so disliked. His part was done, as far as he was concerned. He would only stay long enough to testify at court to ensure Mr. Hudson would get the sentence Sherlock had promised him.

_I told you you'd need it. Thank you for saving me the paperwork.-MH_

Sherlock snorted at the text even as Mycroft's contact pulled up. The chauffeur glanced into the mirror as Sherlock got in, beginning to unbutton his shirt. "Everything all right sir?" The driver asked. Sherlock shrugged out of his shirt more gingerly than he'd like to admit.

"I'm fine." He said again, unstrapping the vest that had protected his torso from the bullet that was now lodged in it. "We may need to stop by the station though. I imagine this will be wanted for evidence." There was an impressive bruise starting to form from his breastbone out, but other than that he was mostly uninjured.

_If you don't get that checked out, I will have you sedated. There may be heart damage or cracks in your ribs. -MH_

Sherlock scowled at his phone, and then at the small lens in the back of the car.

_Why do you care? -SH_

_Paperwork. Keeping you healthy is the only way to ensure I put it off as long as possible.-MH_

_You know, it would be much easier if you just disowned me. I think we would all feel more relaxed if you did.-SH_

_Nice try, but you are far too nosy for me to not watch, what with my governmental hobbies and all.-MH_

_It was worth a try.-SH_

_Get checked out.-MH_

_Your care is touching. Mother would be proud.-SH_

_Oh leave off.-MH_

Sherlock smirked openly.

_Back in London, England. 221B Baker St._ _Several months later._

Mrs. Hudson was back home, but it had been several months of healing and therapy before she was ready to be completely on her own. One of her children had been living with her during the period, but near the end Sherlock got a call. Mrs. Hudson wanted to see him. Puzzled, he showed up none the less.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson said happily, embracing him as he entered the flat. Sherlock had grown accustomed to Mrs. Hudson's habits and stopped himself from tensing completely at her touch. He even hugged her back.

"How are you feeling?" He asked awkwardly, trying to lead into why she'd summoned him there in the first place.

"Much better, thank you. I just wanted you to stop by because I realize I never properly thanked you."

Sherlock squirmed internally. He hadn't told Mrs. Hudson the extent of what had happened, but she was intelligent. She figured out what Sherlock had done. While the news of her husband's practices and following execution did shock her, there was still an undeniable aura of relief that surrounded her afterwards. She hid it well from her children, but Sherlock knew that they understood at least part of what had happened. The abuse however, only ever stayed between him and Mrs. Hudson.

"I know this makes you uncomfortable, so I'll make it quick. What you did for me, no one has ever bothered to do before. No one ever cared that much. Thank you for what you did. And if I can ever help you in any way, don't hesitate to ask." She shrugged, sighing as she looked around the flat, a small smile on her face.

"Who knows, I'll need to support myself, perhaps I'll rent out the top part of the flat in a year or two." She smiled teasingly. "Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

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><p>Thanks guys! See ya!<p> 


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